Carl Rankin stood on the crest of a hill looking west across Wyoming Territory. The sun was setting. The red horizon of the sunset was on the far side of a wide range of grassland. Fort Bridger sat out there more than three weeks to the west. His wagon train was almost halfway to Oregon. Carl turned to look at his wagon train. The white canvas bonnets looked grey in the thin evening light. Dust bellowed up above the wagons and drifted with the wind over the grassland. The wagons slowly formed into a circle on the edge of the trail.